


On Thin Ice

by rositaras



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Morning Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22282126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rositaras/pseuds/rositaras
Summary: Tara is 'on thin ice.' Rosita's threats fail to intimidate.
Relationships: Tara Chambler/Rosita Espinosa
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	On Thin Ice

“Babe, try to breathe.”

It’s the millionth time in approximately three minutes that Tara’s told her to breathe, and Rosita starts to whirl on her before another round of unproductive gagging forces her back over the cold porcelain toilet bowl, settling for flipping her wife off. She knows Tara won’t take it personally. And she doesn’t, chuckling softly as she brushes Rosita’s hair back smoothly, cupping a cool hand over her forehead to hold her steady. “If you don’t want me to tell you to breathe, then breathe. You’re gasping like a fish.”

“Just kill me,” Rosita pants, squeezing down hard on Tara’s knee for support. “Just stab me in the head and be done with it.”

“I love you too much for that,” Tara says sweetly, kissing her hair softly. “Even when you hurl all over the bed at three in the morning.”

“It’s  _ your  _ fucking kid-” Rosita cuts herself off with a dry heave, spitting up a long string of foul-tasting acidic saliva. “Your little banshee that’s doing this to me-”

“I did offer to do it instead,” Tara explains yet again, just as patiently as the first time, her tone soft and full of love as she gently smooths a hand down Rosita’s back. “Tell me how to help, babe.”

“Kill me,” Rosita reiterates, but Tara only hums expectantly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from her ear. “Just keep rubbing my back, it feels good.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” Tara murmurs, massaging her shoulders. “Loosen up a little, you’re as stiff as a rock…”

“You try to puke relaxed,” Rosita shot back, whining as her stomach cramps rebelliously yet again. “Just try it, I dare you.”

“I think you’re doing enough of that for both of us,” Tara counters, rubbing smooth circles over the small of her back. “Are you sure you’re gonna barf again, babe? It’s been like twenty minutes…”

“If you try to carry me back to bed I will vomit all over you,” Rosita swears, gagging dryly over the bowl. “I swear to God, I will.”

“Like you didn’t already,” Tara murmurs under her breath as she tugs at the fabric of her just-changed pajama shirt, mock-flinching as Rosita whirls around to glare at her. “Ooh, the room just got colder…”

“You’re on thin ice, missy,” Rosita warns, shifting uncomfortably on the cold, unforgiving tile. “Thin ice indeed.”

Tara huffs a laugh, most likely too tired to whip up another witty comeback, because she settles for poking Rosita in the ribs before returning to gently rubbing her back, leaning back against the wall casually. She looks good even in her pajamas, wearing a loose Joan Jett T-shirt and pajama shorts that show off her long, muscular legs, her dark hair just brushing her shoulders. Despite the pervasive feeling of  _ bleh,  _ Rosita reaches out anyway, gently skimming a hand over Tara’s exposed thigh. She doesn’t want to start anything, not tonight, but it feels good to touch her, to be reminded of  _ other  _ times they’ve had together, and it makes the seven months stretching ahead not seem quite so long, at least while she’s touching Tara, and the worst of the pain fades away as Tara squeezes her wrist, giving her a sleepy smile at the gentle touch, her pretty brown eyes half-closed.

Rosita’s stomach flips then, and this time it’s not a false alarm, and Tara seems to sense it, her eyes flying open as Rosita’s shoulders jerk, wrapping a supporting arm around her waist. Her other hand goes once again to her back, rubbing firmly up and down over her spine. “Just get it out, babe, I’ve got you.”

She heaves dryly once, then again, bile burning the back of her throat. Tara hums comfortingly to her, keeping up the firm pressure over her back. The third retch brings up a mouthful of foul-tasting acid, and Rosita coughs hard before yet another powerful gag finally ends it and so much comes up she nearly chokes, a long string of acid hanging from her lip as she pants in the aftermath, trying to gauge if it’s over or not.

“Here, babe…” Tara gropes for a wet washcloth from the sink on Rosita’s other side, wiping her mouth gently. “How you feeling?”

“Like the human version of a dumpster fire,” Rosita groans, resting her forehead against the cool porcelain, her face flushed and beaded with sweat from the exertion. “I’m still not done, for fuck’s sake…”   


“There can’t be anything left in you, poor thing…” Tara’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle as she wraps her arms around Rosita, giving her a light squeeze. “You’re shaking, baby…”

Rosita is only  _ baby  _ when Tara’s concerned, and the nickname draws a weak smile to her face, barely tugging the corner of her mouth upright, but still. She’s making that little frown she does only when she’s worried, her nose crinkled thoughtfully, and Rosita wants nothing more to kiss her then and there, she looks so adorable, but her breath tastes like something died in her tonsils and it’s not fair to do that to Tara. 

Second only to kisses from her wife is her burning desire to go back to bed - Tara took care of the sheets when she changed her shirt, so it’s soft and warm and clean, made up with the ridiculously fluffy blanket Aaron and Eric gave them for their wedding - and something finally goes her way. She coughs hard, brings up a last thin mouthful of bile, and at long last, she finally feels empty. “Now,” she tells Tara, forcing a thin smile. “You can carry me to bed.”

“How about you brush your teeth first?” Tara asks, for once playing the responsible one in their relationship, so Rosita allows her to scoop her up and wrap her arms around her waist, holding her steady with her chin on Rosita’s shoulder as she brushes the taste from her mouth. Tara’s taller than her, although not by much, and a good bit stronger from the police academy, and as soon as Rosita rinses her mouth clean, she’s in Tara’s arms, cradled securely as she takes her back down the hall.

“You know you didn’t have to  _ actually  _ carry me to bed, right?” she murmurs, although she’s privately thankful - Tara is perfectly warm and strong, her dark hair tickling Rosita’s nose as she leans her head on her shoulder, the gentle swaying motion practically rocking her to sleep as sickness gives way to exhaustion.

“What if I wanted to?” Tara eases her down on the soft mattress, reaching for the coveted fluffy blanket. “It’s an honor to carry you, Miss Rosita Chambler-Espinosa.”

Rosita rolls her eyes at the flattery, but smiles sleepily anyway, tugging on Tara’s hand. “Get down here and hold me.”   


Tara grins, sinking down onto the bed to press a lazy kiss to Rosita’s lips, regardless of how chapped they are from a solid week of nights like these. “You are the most badass woman I have ever met and I love you.”

“You are the best at taking care of me ever, and I love you more,” Rosita murmurs, blinking sleepily up at Tara. “Kiss me for real, and then let me sleep for the next three days.”

“That’s a coma, babe,” Tara corrects, but kisses her anyway, soft and sweet and lingering. Even when she finally breaks away, she doesn’t pull back, smiling down at Rosita contentedly. “God, you’re beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Rosita breathes, wrapping her arms around Tara’s neck to keep her close. “I’m so tired but now I really wanna make out…”

“I’m off tomorrow, remember?” Tara presses a butterfly-soft kiss to the tip of her nose, finally rolling off her to curl up under the blanket. “We can do whatever you want.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”


End file.
